


i'd think by now you'd know

by witching



Series: purple rain [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Shakespeare, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 16:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: it's 1996, and baz luhrmann's william shakespeare's romeo + juliet sparks a debate between crowley and aziraphale -- about the film, about their old friend will, and about their feelings.





	i'd think by now you'd know

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a lot to say about this, except that i felt the need to expand on the shakespeare stuff in the story, dive a little deeper into what was going on there. and i'm gay. title is from prince's "it's gonna be lonely"

“If you think about it,” Crowley said, between sips of tea. “If you  _ really  _ think about it, I mean.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I am  _ really  _ thinking about it, my dear, I just don’t see it.”

“Well, it’s the truth.” Crowley set his cup down on the coffee table and swung his legs up on the sofa, lying back with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. “We can go see a community theatre production sometime, you can see if it jumps out at you.”

The angel wrinkled his nose. “Community theatre?” 

“Or we’ll just do a close reading together,” Crowley suggested. “A very close reading. I’ll be Romeo and you’ll be Juliet.”

Blushing fiercely, Aziraphale stammered for several seconds before he caught his bearings enough to speak. “Shouldn’t you be Mercutio?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than normal. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No,” the demon sighed in mock-exasperation. “If I play the part, I’ll be too convincing, it’ll bias you toward me. You just have to pay attention, is all, and you’ll see the similarities.”

Aziraphale shook his head, resisting the urge to touch Crowley’s hair, splayed out beautifully on his lap, and the equally strong urge to tell Crowley exactly how biased he already was toward the demon. “You are a skilled actor,” he said instead, keeping his tone even.

“But you still don’t believe me,” Crowley replied, and it wasn’t a question.

They had gone to see a new film production of Romeo and Juliet, against Aziraphale’s better judgment. It was too colorful, he thought, and too modern; he preferred a classic interpretation. It had taken Crowley weeks to convince him to go to the cinema, and he only agreed after Crowley told him it was from a director whose previous credits included a film about ballroom dancing. It was true, but only in the literal sense; a “spiritual lie,” Aziraphale called it.

At any rate, they were now in the back room of the bookshop, discussing the film, as they tended to do. Aziraphale insisted that it was not done  _ incorrectly, _ just that it wasn’t his favorite adaptation, while Crowley said it was a solid and faithful interpretation of the text, and he adored the costuming. Aziraphale said something like “Of course you do,” and Crowley said something like “Well, I should know a thing or two about the play,” and they had arrived eventually at the demon asserting that Mercutio was modeled after him.

“It’s not that I don’t  _ believe  _ you,” Aziraphale said, “just… it is a bit far-fetched. You never even liked Will.”

“Oh, but he liked me just fine.” Crowley grinned up at the angel, giving him an ostentatious wink. “He liked me plenty. Plus, he  _ was  _ a bit short on original ideas, in the early years. Needed the inspiration, and there’s no better muse than yours truly.”

Aziraphale frowned, if only to stop himself from smiling. “You are dreadful.”

Crowley fiddled absently with a loose thread at the hem of the angel’s shirt. “Tell you what,” he said decisively. “How about I just nip down there for a spell and ask Will myself? You can’t come, of course, but I can get it in writing.”

“Anthony Crowley, if you take a short trip to Hell and bring me back a written note, in Will Shakespeare’s hand, affirming that Mercutio was based off of you, then I will believe it. And ask him how he feels about Baz Luhrmann, while you’re there.”

“Nah, I can’t do that,” Crowley laughed. “They don’t let you just waltz in and speak to the dead. You have to apply for a torture permit, and take a test, and the whole thing takes months. Not worth it.”

Aziraphale gave a laugh in reply, sharp but good-natured. “I think you won’t do it because you know you’re putting me on. You just don’t want to admit I’m right.”

“I think you just don’t want to admit that I knew something you didn’t,” Crowley shot back, perhaps with a bit too much venom, and then he snapped his mouth shut as he was flooded with regret and irritation and a hundred other, unnameable feelings. When he spoke again, it was in a quiet, sulking tone. “It  _ is  _ true, you know.”

Recognizing the mood that Crowley had suddenly sunk into, Aziraphale chose not to argue. “I’ll read the play again,” he said, aiming for reassuring without complete acquiescence. “See what I can see in it. No promises, though.”

Crowley crossed his arms and did not say anything, unless the soft  _ hmph  _ that escaped him could be qualified as saying something. He did not, however, move from his position lying in the angel’s lap, and this fact did not escape Aziraphale’s notice. 

“Alright,” he sighed, once again biting back the visceral desire to run his hand through the demon’s hair. “Alright, I’m sorry.”

That got a reaction from Crowley, who jerked his head up in shock, before remembering he had an image to keep up, and relaxing back into his previous position. Aziraphale, who was about eight hundred years past believing any part of Crowley’s image, watched the process with amusement. Crowley had every right to be shocked, they both knew, because Aziraphale did not apologize. It was just something he didn’t do. They spent a lot of their time together debating this or that, and if it ever crossed the line from playful banter into genuine arguing, if either of them got their feelings hurt, it would go one of two ways.

If Crowley was in the wrong, he would attempt to backpedal his argument, fail, and then slink away and hide for a few days. When he decided enough time had passed, he would pop in to see Aziraphale, usually with a pastry or a decently rare book, and mumble an offhand comment that was not necessarily an apology. Generally, it was something like “I got to thinking and I suppose you may have had a point,” and then he would jump to remind the angel, “Mind, that doesn’t mean you’re  _ right, _ I’m just saying,” and Aziraphale would laugh and accept the gift and the not-apology, and they would quickly fall back into their usual rhythm.

On the other hand, if Aziraphale was the one who had upset Crowley, he would end the conversation with a petty dig and storm off. Then, unwilling to admit he was wrong, but loathe to think he had made Crowley feel bad, he would marinate in his guilt for a few hours before making a decision. Almost invariably, he decided that he would go find Crowley and take him somewhere flash and fabulous, draw him out until he was no longer angry; he would not bring up the subject in any capacity, not to apologize or for any other reason.

Crowley could not remember the last time Aziraphale had said the words “I’m sorry” aloud to him. Aziraphale could – it was fifty years previous, in 1947, and he had tripped over a crack in the street, and one of his cufflinks had scratched the paint on the Bentley. It was not the same as this situation, not in the least.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, mainly because Crowley had not responded. “I know you’re – I mean, I haven’t the foggiest clue  _ why, _ but I know it’s a sore spot for you. I’ll let it go.”

“S’not a sore spot,” muttered the demon, but he uncrossed his arms and returned to idly toying with Aziraphale’s shirt. 

“Alright.” 

“It’s  _ not, _ angel,” Crowley insisted. 

“Alright.” The angel kept his tone amicable, not wanting to rile Crowley any more than he already had. 

Silence settled over them for a minute, until Crowley could stand it no longer, his resolve snapping as he took the bait that Aziraphale had clearly laid out for him. “It’s just,” he began, turning his head slightly to see Aziraphale’s face better, “I don’t like the implication that the two of you were such close pals, and I was just along for the ride. That’s not how it went. That’s not what happened.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “I don’t – I never meant to imply that. I don’t think that. I’ve just always been… confused, as to the exact nature of your relationship with him.”

“He pissed me off quite frequently,” Crowley said, “but he  _ was  _ my friend. We had fun, sometimes, and we talked and hung out, without you, sometimes.”

“So you did,” replied the angel. 

Crowley took a deep breath and gnawed at the inside of his cheek while he thought through something, and still began talking without knowing what he was going to say. “And you were – I mean, Will and Kit… I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head at his own incoherence. “You were always… with them,” he finished lamely.

“I… don't understand.”

What Crowley couldn’t articulate to Aziraphale was the fact that his feelings had very little to do with either Will Shakespeare or Kit Marlowe, and very much to do with Aziraphale. He never much cared for theatre, back then, always thought it was too dirty to be worth it, but when Aziraphale began  _ quoting  _ the plays, Crowley decided it was time to get involved, lest the angel find that playwrights were slightly better companions than an immortal adversary.

He wasn't  _ jealous. _ Envy was a sin, but it wasn't one Crowley preferred to engage in. He was not jealous of the way that Aziraphale doted on the two young men, or their flirtatious rapport, or their stupid pretty faces. The first time that he went to visit Aziraphale and arrived just as Will was leaving, hair disheveled and shirt half-open, he wasn't jealous then, either; he was positively heartbroken. 

Crowley couldn't say any of that to the angel, though, back then or now. “Whatever,” he groaned, “it doesn't matter. Let's talk about something else.”

Aziraphale thought for a long moment, utterly confused, before he thought of a new subject to discuss. “I read recently there's going to be a film about Oscar coming out soon,” he said brightly, “isn't that swell?”

Crowley turned on his side so the angel couldn't see him roll his eyes. He was trying, to an extent, and Crowley was willing to put in a similar effort to avoid a fight. “Yes,” he mumbled, only slightly bitterly, “it's just  _ swell, _ isn't it.”

“You will go see it with me, yes?” Aziraphale's tiny amount of self restraint broke and he reached out to play with a lock of the demon's hair as he spoke. “I wouldn't dream of going to the cinema without you,” he added.

Crowley grunted a sound of acknowledgment, turning his face further to hide the blush rising to his cheeks. “Yeah, sure,” he said, as if it didn't matter all that much, as if he could take it or leave it. “We'll see it together.”  _ Together, _ he repeated internally. 

Aziraphale continued to touch Crowley's hair, and Crowley continued to allow it. The angel wondered incredulously why he had held back for so long, why he had denied himself this simple pleasure. He did not let himself wonder about other simple pleasures, about what else Crowley might allow. This was enough, and it was fragile, and he could not risk losing it.

“Together,” he echoed softly, and he told himself he imagined the way Crowley relaxed into him with a quiet sigh of relief.


End file.
